Clever
by the-vampire-act
Summary: It was all his fault entirely. The proof that he had collected concluding the statement was too overwhelming to ignore. He had sold out the world's only consulting detective to the world's only consulting criminal. How charming of him.


**Clever. **

It was all his fault entirely. The proof that he had collected concluding the statement true was too overwhelming to ignore. He had sold out the world's only consulting detective to the world's only consulting criminal. How charming of him.

"Sir," Anthea called out. Her heels clucked against the floor at a steady pace. 'Good," Mycroft Holmes mused. 'Some good news for a change, it would seem.' Moments later Anthea appeared at Mycroft's desk with a handful of newspapers. "You said to collect anything containing mention of him, so here you are." The assistant sat down the papers in a neat pile on his desk. Mycroft just looked up at her knowingly; she never walked that calmly unless something good- and not work-related- happened. "Right," she muttered. She should have known he knew there was more news. "Your request off has been granted, sir. You have the rest of the week-"

"We," he corrected with a ghostly smile. "_We _have the rest of the week off."

Anthea smiled but quickly corrected herself. She should be more sympathetic, she knew, considering the circumstances. "Is there anything I can do before I go on my way?" She let the 'because your brother just died' go unsaid. Mycroft didn't need another reminder of his brother's alleged suicide. She knew her boss long enough to know that he was on the verge of breaking down. A break from the British government, even if it was just for a couple of days, was the least Mycroft deserved.

"Thank you, Anthea, but that will be all." The way his voice cracked as he had spoke did not go unnoticed by Anthea, however. "I'd like to thank you for being such a good…._friend _throughout this whole ordeal. I really do appreciate everything that you've done."

"It's nothing, sir," Anthea replied, trying to sound reassuring but really just trying not to break down herself.

"The funeral will be tomorrow at six p.m.; if you would like to come-"

"I'll be there, sir," she nodded.

"Very well," Mycroft smiled. But it was shallow, and Anthea recognized it right away as the same smile he had used after he heard about the ordeal with his own brother and Dr. Watson at the poolside. She recalled that even then he had looked lost. That wasn't something she contributed to Mycroft at all- being human, that is. He was, as she recalled Sherlock had once said, "The British Government". That wasn't a title one who felt things deeply was given. Then again, even a Holmes could be wrong, she supposed. "I'll be on my way now, Anthea, and I suggest you do the same. I'm sure you have some texts to respond to," he tried joking. Of course he had failed to fulfill the definition of 'joke', even to his own standards. The words sounded emotionless and weka- well, more than usual, that is. He had been hiding his emotions all day, and it became evident that he was starting to lose that control. Caring wasn't an advantage, he had once said. Now he wasn't so sure if he was right.

"I always do, sir," Anthea smiled back. She took out her mobile and pressed a button so the screen would light up. "Seventy-five, it would seem."

"Well, let's not keep them waiting any longer." Mycroft turned off his lamp and stuffed the newspapers into his briefcase. He then stood up, adding, "Come on, I'll walk you out."

~* Sherlock, BBC *~

Mycroft had made it home. Somehow that seemed like an accomplishment on its own. Being the British government may have its advantages, but days like this made him doubted if it was worth it. It had gotten his brother killed today, after all. If he had been less self-involved with his own interests, maybe Sherlock would be alive right now.

Mycroft shook of his jacket and threw it in his closet. He then b-lined to the kitchen and poured himself a tall glass of bourbon. On second thought, he left the glass and took the bottle instead. Exhausted and overwhelmed, he picked up his bottle and his briefcase and made his way into the study. The newspapers were just too much right now. All of them were plastered with pictures of his only brother accompanied by slander and acquisitions. "Sherlock Holmes a Fake", "The Reichenbach Hero Falls", "Consulting Detective a Fraud". Mycroft had underestimated Moriarty's power; then again, they all had. Mycroft threw the newspapers down and took a long sip from his bottle.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock," he managed out between swigs of bourbon. "You can't be dead! You would have never taken your life unless that bastard threatened to hurt someone. I'm so sorry I brought this onto Sherlock. Please, just come back…."

~* 15 minutes earlier *~

Anthea waited until she saw Mycroft leave before she pulled out her phone again.

_**Molly planted your DNA on the corpse. It's on its way to the funeral home now. -Anth**_

_**Good. Does he suspect anything? -SH**_

_**No. He doesn't have a clue. Have you made it there yet? -Anth**_

_**I'm there now…..Thank you. -SH**_

_**I'm just glad he'll know soon. He blames himself for what happened. -Anth**_

_**I know. -SH**_

_**He just left the parking lot. Good luck. -Anth**_

_**Thanks. I'll need it. -SH**_

With that, Anthea shut her mobile and turned her car key in the ignition. She closed her eyes as the car came to life. She hoped that she was doing the right thing. Not for her sake- no. For the sake of Mycroft- for Sherlock- it had to work.

~* Mycroft's Home. *~

Not even an hour later and his bottle was empty. Mycroft took that as a bad sign and sighed. His eyes glanced to the clock he had hanging above his desk. 11:45 p.m. It was time for bed. He stumbled his way up the stairs lazily. He felt no urgency to reach his bedroom. Sleep, he feared, was something that he felt would elude him. And, if it came, he had a feeling his brother would be making a star entrance in it. Soon enough Mycroft reached his door. He went to open the door only to realize it had previously been opened. That caught him off-guard. He always shut his door. How could it have opened? Mycroft reached into the vase that rested on the table outside his room. He fished out the gun and held it behind his back. Being the British Government, he'd come to realize, one could never be too careful. Finally, he pushed the door fully opened.

What he found was not what he had expected at all.

In his bed laid a tall, slim figure underneath his comforter. Scarred toes peeked out due to the man's long frame, and on the other spectrum unruly curly black hair was visible. Slightly south of that hair were the most memorable blue eyes Mycroft had ever seen, and at the sight of them he smiled. That smiled wavered, however, when he saw the scars. Jumping off a hospital roof does that to a person, Mycroft rationalized. He was just lucky that it wasn't worse. At first Mycroft thought the younger man was sleeping, but suddenly those piercing blue eyes blinked open and a smile crept up on the man's face.

"Welcome home, Sherlock."


End file.
